Stockholm Syndrome
by BlueSchmoo
Summary: What really happened between Imoen and Jon Irenicus before she broke free from the dungeons BGII? What is the real reason for Jon's lust for power? Please R & R! Rated R for mature content, torture. New chapter to come soon!
1. Default Chapter

BGII

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Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to BioWare Corp, Black Isle, and/or Interplay Entertainment Copr.. I am just borrowing them for my own amusement for a little while, heh heh heh... 

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Setting: Beginning of BGII, in Jon Irenicus's dungeons, beneath the city of Amn. Jon has kept Imoen captive, and has been 'demonstrating' his experiments in an effort to 'teach' her and show her her true potential. Jaheira, Minsc and Damien (main Bhaalspawn RPC) are still caged, and are unaware of Imoen's presence in the dungeon. 

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Category: Romance/Angst

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Plot summary: Under the continual influence of Irenicus, Imoen slowly starts to understand what he wants from her, and that she is the key to unlocking the power he craves. She goes along with him at first just so that she can just stay alive in the hopes that the others will eventually rescue her. Slowly, as Jon reveals the real reasons behind his obsessive quest for power, she realizes there is meaning behind his madness, and she begins to develop romantic feelings for him. Torn between the disgust she feels at his Necromantic experiments, and her budding feelings of love, Imoen must make the most difficult decision of her life. Could she ever admit these feelings to herself, let alone to Jon? When help does arrive, will she flee with her friends, or stand and defend her captor? 

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A/N. I realize this is an unusual pairing, but I always wondered what Imoen and Jon were up to before the rest of the group escaped from the dungeons…

Chapter 1. 

Jon Irenicus. How she hated him with every fibre in her being. Even now, she could barely look at him in the face before turning away, nauseous in her disgust. From his tall, muscular frame and broad shoulders, to the elegant bone structure of his face she could tell that at one point in time, he had been a very handsome man. 

But no longer. She knew that the skin that covered his face was not actually his own flesh. It was harvested from a corpse, stretched smoothly over the muscle tissues of his own face, stitched into his existing skin, then animated by complex necromantic spells to adhere to his facial bone. She shuddered to think what it must be like going through life wearing somebody elses' skin. Only a True Necromancer or perhaps a Pale Master could live such an existence. 

She had been sitting on the stone floor of the cell where she was kept, her back resting against the wall. Cramped, she stood to stretch, trying to think of something else, someone else, other then Jon Irenicus. With nothing better to do, she walked over to inspect the lock on her cell door. For the hundredth time she used all of her skills as a thief to pick the lock, but it was useless. Jon had somehow warded it such that he was the only one who could open it. Discouraged, she gave up, and walked back to her narrow bunk, sitting down and resting her head against the back of the damp, stone walls. To occupy herself, she mentally reviewed some of the spells she had memorized during her brief tutelage as a mage's apprentice. She placed her hands together, thumbs touching and fingers splayed, and mentally projected the pattern images commanding the Burning Hands spell. Although she formed the patterns, she did not put emotion and need behind the spell, and therefore it never materialised. Soon, she lost herself in her memorisations, as she mentally reviewed the patterns again and again. 

With silent footsteps, Jon approached Imoen's cell. He was carrying her lunch on a tray, and carefully, he set it down on the small table just outside of her cell. Quietly, he straightened and turned to observe her. She was still quite unaware of his presence, and he watched as her long and tapered fingers performed the hand motions for the Burning Hands spell. 

His voice shattered the silence. "Are you aware, Imoen, that if you close your fingers, but still keep your thumbs touching and palms out, you can focus and direct that spell further? However, there is a downside in that you will lose much of your radius of exposure." 

At the sound of his voice, Imoen's eyes flew open, and she turned her head to look at the powerful mage standing in front of her cell. Once again, his piercing stare paralysed her with fear. She could feel her heart beating erratically, and her chest felt tight, as if she could not breathe. He scared the shit out of her, no matter how much she tried to deny it. 

"I can demonstrate, and you can practice later, if you wish. At the moment, it is your lunch time," he said, moving to open the cell door. _She was so transparent at times_, he thought, amused. She obviously feared him, and that was a good thing, in this case. It meant he had yet another advantage over her, one he would not hesitate to use if necessary. 

Jon unlocked and pushed the cell door inwards, then moved forwards such that he stood halfway in the opening, blocking her exit. His position would force her to either press herself flat against the metal frame of the door to get around him as she exited the room, or brush by him, and physically touch his body. His cold, unblinking gaze watched her intensely as she rose gracefully from the bunk. Purposefully avoiding his stare, she flattened her back against the steel doorframe so that she would not have to touch him at all. His head followed her, tracking her every move. Sometimes he wondered why he enjoyed playing these little power games with her. She had made a valiant effort not to visibly show her disgust towards him, so in some way, that was a small victory for her, he conceded. He would have to up the stakes next time, he decided.

Imoen walked over and sat herself at the small table. Jon walked around and sat down across from her, watching her select bits of bread, meat and cheese from the tray. Silently she ate, and wordlessly he regarded her. He allowed the tension between them mount until it was almost a tangible entity between them. 

She could not stand it any longer. She had to say something to break the suffocating silence of the room. 

"Why don't you ever eat when I do?" she asked him, briefly bringing her eyes up to meet his unblinking stare. Mentally, she cursed herself. _What a stupid question to ask_, she thought. 

He surprised her by actually answering her question. "I eat when it is convenient for me to do so, and at the moment, it is not convenient. I will eat when I am hungry, not when the clock tells me to do so." 

She nodded her head in acknowledgement of his statement. "Well, I appreciate knowing when I will be fed. For me, eating by the clock is a good thing. Yup. A very good thing." She brought up her eyes again to meet his, and blushing, she quickly looked away again. She knew she was rambling on, speaking for the sake of not listening to the silence around her. She tried hard not to stare at the stitches along his scalp.

She surprised him with her next question. "So what are you planning for this afternoon?" she asked hesitantly, almost frightened of the answer. They had spent the past few days in pretty much the same routine. Mornings he may or may not come for her. But the afternoons – always. 

"You know the answer to that already, Imoen. My purpose is to guide you so that you will awaken, and accept, the power that lies dormant within your very being." He paused, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his lips. "But that is not what you want to her, is it?" He cocked his head to the side, and the smile turned into a smirk. "Today, I want to show you something. If you are to continue your studies to become a mage, it is important that you understand the reasons behind the spells you cast. You will neither understand nor appreciate this at the moment, but there will come a time when you will have to cast spells for which you are unsure of. If you fully comprehend the ideas and principles behind why you are casting the spell, it will be easier for you to project your intent when casting, and a greater chance of that spell working. This is especially important if you are to wield the immense powers I believe are locked deep inside of you. Think of it as furthering your education." Imoen looked up at him with disbelief at these words, but she could not hold his stare. She looked away again. He noticed the brief flash of defiance, and secretly approved. He detested passive humans. 

"You are lucky, Imoen. Many apprentices have wished to study under me, but I do not have the patience for them. For you, I do."

Once again, he alluded towards some special power that she was supposed to have, locked deep within her. She did not believe him. It was Damien who was the Bhaalspawn, not her. It seemed like Jon was making her his pet project, and she did not like it. She went along with him out of fear for her safety, and followed his instructions if only to buy some time. During the walk out of her holding cell, she always kept her eyes open for some sort of escape route, but she never found one. She knew Damien, Minsc, Kalid and Jaheira would not desert her, and would come to rescue her. She just knew it. She just had to be patient, and wait for the right opportunity.

She finished the last of the grapes and cheese from her plate and pushed it away from in front of her. She wondered if now was a good time to bring this up. 

"Jon," she started hesitantly, gathering her courage and looking up to met his gaze. "Can I ask you a question? About magic? About your… _kind_ of magic?" 

A slow smile spread across his face. _Well, she finally found a spine did she_, he thought. _Good_. Once more he was reminded how much he hated passive women, and mages – any mage – should have knowledge as well as confidence in order to further develop their skills. He wanted to encourage her to ask questions – especially ones that she was not sure she wanted the answers to.

"You may," he answered softly.

"Why did you choose to become a… a _necromancer_?" Again, that brief blush crossed her cheeks, and he noted this silently. "I mean, I decided later on in life to study magic, so I will never be able to specialize in a particular school of magic the way you did. But for you, it was different. How did you know you could do it? I mean, it is the most restrictive of all the schools, and… well… it deals with _dead things_…" she trailed off uncomfortably, but still held his gaze. 

This conversation was turning out to be a pleasant surprise for him, he realized. So, she was curious about him. Well. He thought about it, but realized he should tell her the truth. If they are to learn to trust each other, and eventually he would have to trust her with his life, then that trust should be built on the truth. Not all of the truth at once, of course, but some of it. 

Jon leaned back in his chair, thinking how to word his response. 

"Imoen, as you know, there are eight schools of magic from which a wizard can specialize. Each of these schools has their strengths and weaknesses. However, six of these schools basically allow a mage to change the environment around them. This is achieved by protecting them, creating an illusion to fool others, charming or enchanting someone, or else conjuring someone or something to do your dirty work for you. The seventh school allows one to Divine the future, although this, of course, can change in an instant, and it is more of an art than a science. While these are all admirable traits, none of these schools actually have the ability to directly cause death to someone, then allow you to resurrect them such that they are totally, completely, under your control. Alternatively, you can give someone the gift of the One True Death. To kill someone in such as way that the soul is trapped forever on the Plane of Death, never to be brought back or resurrected again, is total, absolute power." 

Jon leaned forward in his chair and brought his face in close to Imoen's before continuing. "This, of course, is what the eighth school of wizardry – necromancy – is all about. First, you die. The rest is pure power."

Jon leaned back in his chair, and saw the relief expressed in Imoen's body language. "This is the one stream where a well placed spell can actually kill or maim with just a word, a glance, or a touch." On this last word, he quickly reached out and caressed his finger along the back of her hand. She jumped and pulled back her hand, as if expecting to feel the first tingling sensations of Abi-Dalzim's Horrid Wilting come over her. Jon sat back and laughed at her reaction. He loved to watch the emotions play across her face at his words.

"It is all about power to you, isn't it?" she asked accusingly. She was still rubbing the back of her hand where he had placed his finger, although no magic had been made. 

"The dead are not so bad really… once you get to know them," he said, a hint of humour laced through his mocking tone. 

"But… but… that's disgusting! You're disgusting!" she said, distaste clearly written across her features at what he did; what he was. A necromancer. And this made him very, very angry.

"Disgusting, is it? Do you really think so, Imoen?" Jon narrowed his eye slightly as he appraised the young woman in front of him. "The next time you die and someone attempts to resurrect you, or raise you from the dead, will you still think it disgusting knowing that these healing spells are the other side of the necromancy coin? How do you think mages first learned to heal – they killed, then healed – that's how. They did not wait patiently while some fool adventurer who wounded himself in battle walked up and asked to be healed!" He rose from his chair, fingers grasping the edge of the table in front of him. Anger rose within him at her lack of insight. She saw a vein stand out along his neck, and knew he was furious with her.

"You cannot have life without death, Imoen. It is that simple. To understand how something lives you must first kill it, and then maybe, possibly, you will understand where that fine line between life and death lies. This is the lesson I need to teach you. _This_ is why I brought you are here. To learn about life, death, survival, and immortality."

She had become increasing frightened by the growing coldness in his tone, and when he approached her, reached for her, she shrunk away from his touch.

He grabbed her firmly by the upper arm, and pulled her to her feet. 

"No! Where are you taking me?" she asked, the fear heavy in her voice, and evident across her features. 

With perverse pleasure, Jon enjoyed watching her mounting fear. Once more, it emphasized his power over her. "It is time for your lessons, my dear. Time for more... experiments."

He strode out of the room, the woman held tightly in his grip. He would enjoy teaching her, he realized. What she needed was more exposure to the art and science of necromancy. Once you viewed again and again the true nature of this school of magic, you became numb to the blood and gore, and began to appreciate the beauty of the magic. It was an unfortunate way to learn, but a necessity. 

Oh yes, he was looking forward to teaching her all about his school of magic…

**~** 

Please review – I would appreciate any feedback – good or bad. 


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to valanthe and Gwen6 - I appreciate you taking the time out to review! 

Chapter 2. 

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Hours later…

When Jon led her back down the passageway towards her holding cell, she almost ran ahead of him in relief. The past few hours were some of the most mentally and emotionally draining she had spent in her short life. She walked into the cell and immediately closed the door herself, then backed away until her back was firmly and safely pressed against the solid stone wall. As useless an act as it may be against such a powerful wizard as Jon Irenicus, she desperately wanted to put some sort of separation between them. 

Jon silently observed her reaction. The past few hours had been pretty intense for her, he had to admit. She had held up quite well under the circumstances, though. She had only vomited twice. 

He walked up and placed his hands around the bars of the cell door, and peered in, addressing her. "I won't lock this door tonight, Imoen. I imagine you would like to bathe after your _lesson_ this afternoon, so I will lock the outer door to the hall. You have permission to roam this small section of the dungeon. You know where the washroom is. I will have someone bring you your dinner."

He took a step backwards and turned to leave, but hesitated a moment. He looked back over his shoulder to see the woman behind the bars cringing against the back wall. 

"Imoen," he said, his voice resonating softly in the harsh starkness of the dungeon. She reluctantly opened her eyes and met his unblinking, reptilian gaze through the bars of the cell. The past few hours with him had forced her to accept him for what he was. A Necromancing mage – and a most powerful one at that. She was awed by the power he had demonstrated to her, and was now more intimidated than terrified by him. He had ample opportunity to kill or maim her over these past few days but he had not, and it confused her. She was almost accepting him as a person now, not just her captor. She no longer just stared in fascinated horror at the stark row of stitches that ran along his scalp, which held the mask of dead skin onto his face. However, to some degree he did still frighten her – even more so after this afternoon.

"Yes," she replied weakly.

He continued to stare at her, taking in the sallowness of her face, and the dark circles under her eyes. "I want you to know you did well today. I am very proud of you."

Without another word, and not waiting for her reaction, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving Imoen shocked and surprised at his parting words. 

She waited until she heard his footsteps fade, and the door close and lock as he exited the passageway. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed herself off the wall and reached for the cell door. She felt tired and greasy, and more than anything else she just wanted to feel clean again. 

Opening the door, she walked the short distance to the washroom that was just around the corner from the small dining table. Stripping off her soiled clothes, she let them drop on the floor in a heap. She quickly reached up and removed the coil of beads that held her bangs away from her face, and placed them on the small shelf above the toilet. Reaching into the shower, she turned it on and waited for the water to warm before stepping in. 

She could not remember the last time a shower felt this good. She rinsed her hair and turned her face towards the spray, opening her mouth and letting the force of the water wash away the foul taste that still lingered there. Reaching for the bar of soap, she began to wash her body, cleansing it of the stench and gore that clung to her. She brought the bar up and ran it through her hair. Even after she was clean, she stayed in the warm shower, letting the heat of the water warm her throughout. Reluctantly, she turned off the shower and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Reaching out, she pulled the bath towel off the rack beside the toilet, and wrapped it around herself. Stepping out of the tub, she picked up her dirty clothes and placed them into the tub, turning on the water and throwing in the bar of soap, so they could soak. She would return later to scrub them properly. 

Wrapping the towel around her chest, she grabbed her hair beads and left to go back to her cell. She was surprised to see a tray laden with her dinner already placed on the small table. It could wait. She padded back to her cell and sat on the bunk. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying the get the tangles out, so it would be easier to put the beads back in. 

Pulling the blanket from off the bed, she wrapped it around herself for warmth. She rested her head back against the headboard, and closed her eyes, thinking back to the terrible events earlier on in the afternoon. 

Jon had dragged her to one of the many small alcove rooms, and forced her to stay there, while he went over to some sort of glass holding tank. Inside she could see glimpses of something moving and she had felt very afraid. He had engaged some sort of mechanism and the solution in one of the tanks drained out, allowing the creature inside to be revealed. It appeared to be human – a woman a few years older than herself. She was naked, and Imoen felt embarrassed and ashamed of her nudity, although the creature did not seem to be disturbed by it, or even aware of it at all. 

As the fluid in her lungs drained, the creature coughed, but eventually cleared its airway, and breathed on its own. Jon had commanded her to help him move the being over to a metal table a few meters away, but she had been too frightened to touch it, and had flatly refused. She remembered the dark look that came over his face at her reluctance, and in that calm, arrogant tone, he gave her an ultimatum. Either she helped him, or she would be the one to return to the tank. She had not hesitated in making a decision – she grabbed the creature by its slimy arm and lifted. Together, they managed to place the creature on the table, such that she lay face up, looking at them. 

And so began her practical lessons with Jon Irenicus. 

"Now, Imoen," he began in a tone that was half lecture, half taunting. "I realize that when new mages are taught their crafts, they are instructed that all healing spells should be left to priests. Generally, they do not teach you how to prepare and cast the most simple of healing spells. Well they are wrong. Just as a necromancer mage is taught to identify and control dead creatures, they should also be able to identify physical wounds on the living, and heal them. I am not speaking of diseases or damage to your soul or such that required the intervention of a Divine spell, but of simple, physical wounds. To be successful at this, you must have a basic understanding of anatomy. This is absolutely necessary if you are to learn how to cure, or to kill. It is easy to learn a spell, cast it, and say 'I know it works, but I don't know why'. Priests rely upon their Gods to deal with the details of where to heal a wound. They are mere conduits through which the Deity's power passes. I rely upon so such God."

He moved around the table until he was standing right next to her. She had to lift her head up high to see him, since he was so much taller than she was. Just the fact that he stood so close to her, near enough that her head could touch the armour he wore across his shoulders, made her nervous and very aware of his presence beside her. She ignored that feeling, and tried to pay attention to what he was saying. 

With that introduction, he turned and removed a scalpel from the tray that stood beside the table. Carefully, and precisely, he made a small, shallow incision in the creature's stomach. She had felt sick at the sight of the thin line of blood that appeared, but the woman did not flinch or say a word, and she wondered what kind of creature she was, such that she voluntarily let him do that to her. 

"So, here we have a very small slice across her abdomen. It is a common wound, one you will find on any battlefield. Now I will show you how to heal it." She watched as he moved his hands in a complex motion, and listened carefully as he enunciated the words of the healing spell. With a rush of sound and light, the wound across the creature's stomach healed completely. Once more, he had picked up the scalpel and made a similar incision on the other side of the creature's stomach. For the first time, she noticed that the creature laying there, motionlessly, had no navel. _Odd_. 

She had brushed past him in order to stand next to the creature. They were now standing so close that she could feel the heat emanating off his body, and for some strange reason, it felt comforting to her. Once more she was filled with conflicting emotions about the mage. She was disgusted by him and his actions, yet he had never touched or harmed her in any way. The apparent contradiction left her off balance, and unsure of what she really felt about him. 

Forcing those questions aside, she calmed her mind, she held up her hands in front of her. She began to chant the words of the spell in a clear monotone, while imitating the hand movements he had just done. 

She waited, and felt a small stir within her body. There was a faint glimmer of energy that was created, but nothing else. The wound stared up at her, red and accusing, for not having healed it. She sighed in her failure. 

She heard his voice right behind her. "Try again, Imoen. Your hands were not quite right. Imagine the wound healing as you speak, and this will help you focus."

Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath and lifted her hands. Just before she was about to speak, she felt his arms come around, engulfing her, and he lay his fingers on the back of her hands as if to guide her. She had to stop herself from shrinking away from the physical contact. 

"Go ahead. Move your hands as you will, and I will correct you," he said. She felt her heart beat start to quicken at the weight of his touch, but her hands remained steady. 

Once more, she initiated the vocal part of the spell, and started to motion her hands. She felt his cool, dry fingers rest lightly against her own warm, moist ones. Ignoring the sensations it caused deep within her, she focussed her attention on the wound in front of her, picturing it closing as it healed. She felt a tug within the core of her being, and she was filled with an odd energy – very faint, but definitely present. Just as the spell ended, she could hear a rush of sound and saw a bright light of energy surrounding her hands. She looked down to see the edges of the wound pulling closer together. It was not complete, but it was a start. 

She looked over her shoulder in excitement to see Jon's face smiling down on her. 

"Congratulations, Imoen," he said mockingly. "You have almost completed the most basic of spells a first level necromancer could perform. Almost." Immediately, her elation drained at this pointed reminder. 

"Come. This is just your first lesson. There are many more to learn."

With that, the rest of the afternoon was spent watching his as he systematically sliced, stabbed and severed different parts of the creature's body, then demonstrated to her how to heal them. She did nothing but watched, and learned how to heal all of the different types of wounds. How to stop major arterial bleeding, and when to cast a spell for just superficial cuts and abrasions. After almost six hours of watching, attempting and failing, she was mentally and emotionally exhausted. It was then that they lifted the creature back into her tank, and with a reversal of the mechanism, the solution once more flooded the tank. All the while, the creature never spoke a word, but listlessly accepted what was being done to her. 

Shaking her head to rid herself of the memories, Imoen rose from the bed and walked over to her dinner tray. She lifted the cover to see a bowl of stew, a thick slice of bread and a wedge of cheese waiting for her. She was not hungry after seeing the gore from the afternoon, however, she knew she had to keep her strength up. First things first, she admonished herself. She set off to the washroom to scrub her soiled, soaking clothes and hang them to dry. 

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	3. Chapter 3

To Gwen6 - I appreciate you taking the time out to review! Many thanks ; )

Chapter 3. 

An hour later Imoen was sitting down at the table eating her cold stew, when she heard the door to the hall open. She set her spoon down and tightened the towel she still wore around her. She watched as Jon approached. He was holding something in his hands.

He strode towards her and was surprised to see her huddled at the table wearing nothing but a bath towel. Unbidden, his gaze travelled up her from hands and over her thin arms to see just a hint of cleavage above where the towel was tucked in. He raised his eyes further to see a furious blush across her cheeks, and he could not help the smile that came to his lips. 

"May I inquire as to your choice of evening wear?" he asked sarcastically. Her anger at letting herself be caught in such a compromising position made her bold. 

"If I HAD a change of clothing, I can assure you I would be wearing that, instead of a towel," she glared up at him. "I am just glad there was a bath towel there, and not just a washcloth," she grumbled, making the best out of the situation.

A genuine smile creased Jon's face at the mental image of Imoen sitting there trying to hide her modesty behind a washcloth. To his surprise, he felt a slight stirring in his loins at such an image. He dismissed the image immediately. 

"My tunic and leggings were filthy from… from… this afternoon's lesson, so I washed them in the tub," she said by way of explanation. He considered this comment a moment.

"Well god-child, I cannot have you wearing wet clothing now, can I? You may catch a chill. We shall see if we can find you a second set of clothes. But first, this…" he said as he set a heavy tomb down on the table and slid it towards her with his hand, "… is for you to read."

"What is it?" she asked, curious, rotating the book around so she could read the title. 

"A book of Necromancy. There are spells in there you will find useful. I suggest you look through it. It may help explain some of what we have, and what we will be doing."

She looked up at him to find him staring down at her with his unblinking, reptilian gaze. It was moments like this that confused her. Here he was holding her captive, being forced to witness vivisections and partake in necromantic healing, all under the direction of the man in front of her. And yet, he made sure she was well fed, bathed, and apparently now, clothed. He was also providing her with an education, if you could call it that. He had never physically harmed her, or for that matter even touched her, before today. And, if she was being honest with herself, she realized that while there was still a strong possibility that Jon Irenicus was as insane as Xzar, it seemed there was purpose behind what he was doing. Was it possible there were things she just did not know about that could explain his obsession towards her 'hidden potential', and the reason he was teaching her about necromancy? She did not know how to deal with all of these emotions jumbled up inside of her.

"Thank you for the book," she said, breaking his gaze and running her hand over the cover of the book lightly. 

"And now, if you will follow me, I believe I can find some clothes that may fit you." He stood back and indicated that she proceed him down the hall. 

"Uh… wearing this?" she asked incredulously, looking down at the brief towel she wore around her middle. 

Jon paused and once more he looked her over from head to foot and back. Again, he felt a stirring inside of him that he could not easily ignore. 

"You are welcome to leave that here, you know," he suggested with raised eyebrows and a smirk. He was rewarded with a furious glare from Imoen, before she proudly raised her head and keeping her arms and towel tight against her body, she marched out of the room. At the end of the hall she paused, not too sure which way to go. 

"This way," Jon said, not breaking his stride and passing her. "Oh and Imoen. Don't even think of trying to escape. There are creatures that live down here that would enjoy nothing more than to sink their teeth into you, and I can guarantee you would require more healing than what you briefly learned today."

She did not doubt his words, and as a shudder of fear washed over her, she hurried to stay a bit closer to the mage.

After what seemed like aeons, they finally entered what seemed to be a bedroom and formal sitting room, combined, with a fireplace on the far wall crackling merrily away. Jon stopped, and she almost ran into him. Without turning around, he addressed her. 

"Do not stray from my path. Do not touch anything, and do nothing before asking me first. Do you understand?" he asked seriously. 

Imoen looked around and with her thief's eyes, she could see that the majority of the room was booby-trapped. A shudder went through her to think of the poor soul who would try to steal anything belonging to Jon Irenicus. She knew the types of traps he could set were lethal.

"I understand," she sighed. 

They walked forward, and the room widened to reveal one large chamber dominated by several mature, beautiful trees. Imoen was looking around in awe at the beauty of the room, and thought that even Jaheira would feel comfortable here. As Jon started to walk forward, she quickly followed. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed something moving. Several somethings. They were ethereal, ephemeral. She heard whispers that sounded like the wind rustling gently through the leaves of the trees, but she knew that there was no breeze in the dungeon. 

"What is this place?" she asked of him. 

"It belongs to the Dryads," he replied matter of factly.

"Dryads! Here?" she exclaimed, excited. "But how? Why?" She would love to meet them. They were reputed to be one of the most beautiful of all creatures that roamed the forests. 

He stopped and turned to face her. He wanted to see her reaction to his next words. 

"They are my concubines," he replied softly, suggestively. As the meaning behind those words sunk in, Imoen was somehow a bit hurt and disappointed. She had no idea why these feelings came up, but there they were. 

"They?" she said flatly. "Oh." They meant more than one. It was the only thing she could think of to say in such an awkward situation. 

He watched as comprehension dawned on her, and he was sure she understood. "Yes Imoen. Even I have – certain needs- that must be satisfied. Contrary to common belief, I am not yet dead, myself." 

Once more, Jon walked forward to the far end of the room. He stood before a doorway and began to motion with his hands and chant a spell she had never heard before. She heard small clicks and pings from within the room, but she could not see what was happening around his large frame. 

He waited for some silent signal that the room was prepared to accept him, before entering. Imoen followed, shocked at what she saw. It was very elegant, and tastefully furnished. There was a feminine beauty to the room that suggested a woman either lived there, or was given free reign to decorate it. It was so out of place from the rest of the creepy dungeon, she was confused. 

Jon walked straight towards the back of the room and opened a closet door. Inside hung several robes and gowns. Jon carefully caressed each of them as he went through the selection. Imoen sat down on a couch, and remained silent. She somehow felt that she should not be in here, as if the person who did would come back in at any moment. Without being told, she knew that this room held special meaning to Jon.

She looked back to where he was still standing in front of the closet. It was as if he had forgotten she was there. She watch, astonished, as he paused before one of the dresses and carefully gathering it up in his fist, he buried his face into it, as if breathing deeply of whatever trace scent was left on the material. He stayed that way for some time, lost in his own thoughts.

"Jon? Are you OK?" she asked, concerned. At the reminder that he was not alone, he quickly let the dress fall from his hands, and returned to riffle through the remainder of the items. Once he reached the end, he went back and chose two of the longer robes. There were simple and functional, but appeared to be made of high quality materials. One was a deep navy blue, while the other was a multitude of brown earthy shades. Both were clearly of better quality than anything she had ever owned in her whole life. 

"Here Imoen, try these on. If they fit you, you may wear them." He voice sounded strained, as if just touching the apparel was difficult for him to do. 

"Won't… won't whoever owns them want to know I have them," she asked hesitantly. 

Jon turned back to face her, and she was shocked to see grief in his eyes. He was always so strong, so in control of every situation and every move he made. To see him in any way other than that was unnerving. 

"No, no she won't. She is not coming back. Ever again." With those words, he walked past her and dumped the clothing into her lap. 

"Try them on to make sure they fit. I will wait outside for you."

She watched as he strode from the room, and out of sight. 

Quickly, she undid the towel and slipped the dark blue shift over her head. It was a bit tight across the chest when laced up, but it fit everywhere else. She held the brown robe up to her frame, and knew it too would fit, since it was a slightly bigger cut. She kept the blue dress on and draped the brown one over her arm, and was about to leave the room before she spotted the dresser, and curiosity overcame her. She used her trained eye to look for any obvious traps. Seeing none, she went over and opened it. She quickly went through the contents, and found some small clothes. They looked new, as if stitched, but never worn. Feeling a bit guilty she tucked these items beneath the brown dress, so at least she would have a change of underclothing. Silently, she slid the drawer shut, and left the room. 

As she exited, she saw Jon standing beside one of the trees. She thought she saw something slip behind the tree as she neared, but she could not be sure. Jon turned as she approached. 

He stopped and just stared at her, his features completely under control. He did not say a word, which made her feel uncomfortable. Imoen looked up at him and saw that he was assessing her carefully. 

"The fit is acceptable to you?" he asked formally. 

"Yes. Thank you," she replied. 

"Good. Then it is time for you to return to your cell."

He did not smile as he turned and swiftly walked away.

She hurried to catch up, knowing that they would have to pass through the room filed with traps. She did not want to loose sight of him as he navigated his way through the room quickly. 

Neither spoke on the journey back to her cell. 

**~**

Jon escorted Imoen back to her cell. He made sure they took the long way around so that there was less chance of her overhearing the sound of her friends' voices in the connecting chambers. Without a word, he opened the door to her cell, ushered her in, and closed it immediately locking and warding it. Jon spun around and started walking. He had no specific destination in mind, he just wanted to move and think. 

He usually spent a few mornings a week with Damien, testing the Bhaalspawn, probing and seeking the depths of his powers. Jon knew that for whatever reason there was much greater divine power in Damien than in Imoen. There was a depth of passion, of life force, within him that was waiting to be tapped. Jon also knew, however, that with great passion also came great risks. To try and focus the divine force within Damien and channel it into himself would be risky at best, or, in the worst case, mean death. No, he recognized that while the life force was less intense in Imoen, it was still present – evidence of Bhaal's legacy. If he had enough patience and she followed the course of action he had planned, then eventually, he would be able to tap into her. He was sure of it.

However, first, he must get her to accept her legacy, and only then can she awaken the latent powers that lay dormant within her. 

Jon sighed. It was tiring him – spending the mornings testing Damien, and then teaching Imoen in the afternoon and evenings. It took away from his personal research, which he resented. However, he must make sacrifices if he was to achieve the power and control he craved. Although Imoen's lessons were repetitive, he knew they were necessary. Not just for her to learn them, but so that they could spend time together, and that she would learn to become comfortable in his presence, and trust him. 

He recognized the fact that the more time they spent together, the greater her tolerance of his presence became. He was fully aware of just how repulsive he was to her – both mentally and physically. His choice of schools of magic – necromancy – disgusted most students of the arts, and she was no exception. As well, he never failed to notice the way she flinched away from touching him, and avoided him at all costs. However – he had to give her credit. In the time span of just over a week, she had come along way in overcoming her fear of him. She no longer avoided looking directly at him, and when she did, she did not stare at the stitches along his scalp where his flesh ended, and the Others was attached. He smiled at the fact that she did not pull away from him when he placed his hands over hers and guided her during the start of the lesson earlier on today. It was almost as if she was starting to accept him as a person, and not her captor. He snorted to himself in disbelief. _Wishful thinking there Jon_. _If you keep this up you will start to imagine that she has developed romantic feelings towards you_, he thought bitterly. 

Unbidden, images of just a hint of firm cleavage peaking out above a towel flashed before his mind. Jon fantasised what it would be like to touch Imoen the way a man touches a woman. To caress her breasts, to taste her skin and kiss her lips. To have _her_ come to _him_ – filled with desire and wanting. To ultimately give up his total control to her – just a slip of a girl. Jon shook his head to clear the fantasy. He knew that would never happen. 

Ever since the accident had irreversibly damaged his face, leaving him no choice but to accept another's skin as his own, he had never forced another to kiss him. Even the Dryads avoided his gaze during sex, preferring that he service them from behind so that they would not have to see his face. It saddened him, their response to his appearance, but he did not blame them. To imagine that Imoen would ever let him touch her body, let alone her lips, was pure fantasy. Jon sadly let the brief hope of such an occurrence fade away.

He found himself retracing his steps back to Her old sitting room, beside the Dryads cavern. He enjoyed it there, as it reminded him of the times they would sit together, either reading or just simply talking and enjoying each others company as husband and wife. He missed her terribly, even ten years after the accident. Every time he looked at himself in the mirror and saw someone else' face staring back at him, he was reminded of her. That it was his fault she was dead. His fault he could never raise her from the dead. His fault that he was here, alone. 

He knew the traps in this room by heart, and had no trouble passing them. He entered the room and sat himself down on the couch, gazing into the fire. The trip into Her room earlier had affected him more than he would like to admit, and it put him in a melancholy mood. Seeing Imoen standing there wearing her dress had caused a ripple of longing to travel up his spine, he recalled. It was almost like seeing Her again after all these years. Almost. 

Jon sighed in the empty room. How he missed his wife. Even now, her image in his mind had blurred. When he had happened to come by her favourite dress hanging beside the others in the closet, he could not help but lift it up, smelling it to see if her scent still clung to it. He was pathetic, he knew. Keeping her clothing and room, exactly the way she had left it the day she died. Here he was, pining away for someone he never fully appreciated until she was taken away from him. He should let Her go and move on, he knew. Self-pity overwhelmed him, and he welcomed the feelings. Rarely did he allow himself to indulge in such petty emotions. 

Jon laughed out loud in the sitting room. What use was it in moving on? Who would ever care for him in the state he was in now? Ever since he accepted the corpse's flesh onto his own, he realized that his life as he knew it had end there. What woman would ever accept him, the way he was now? Who in their right mind would ever concede to kissing him – feeling the dead flesh of another against their cheek? He knew how repulsive his appearance was. Jon felt both angry and ashamed of what he had become since the death of his wife. No matter, it was time to stop looking back at the past, as he had a very new future just ahead of him with Imoen, albeit business, not pleasure.

On a quest to rid himself of the foul mood he was in, Jon stood and strode into the Dryad's cavern in search of the elusive beings. He knew it would be a long night, and most likely he would end up servicing all three of them before the evening was over, as he had rid himself of the demons that haunted him... 


	4. Chpater 4

Thanks to those of you who continue to read and review (Gwen6, Negrath and Mr. XX).

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Warning: this chapter contains some disturbing scenes (vivisection). If this bothers you, please press the back button now. You have been warned.

Chapter 4. 

Imoen was numb with mental fatigue, and at the moment, felt less than useless. She was no longer making progress with the complex spells Jon was teaching her, yet he still pushed her to try again and again anyway. They were back in the 'tank room' as she had dubbed it, with all of the glass containers that housed the strange beings they used as their test subjects. She was once again working on arcane-based healing spells, and they were using the same female creature as before. 

"You must focus, Imoen," Jon reprimanded her sternly. "You are losing concentration and allowing your mind to wander. That is unacceptable."

"But I am so tired! I can't cast when my mind is tired. I need to rest," she pleaded, backing up to the adjacent wall so that she could briefly rest against it. He shoulders and head sagged in exhaustion and frustration. 

Jon stared coldly at her for a moment. "You don't get it, do you? That is the whole point of these exercises, Imoen. Let me ask you this," he said pointedly. "The next time you are in the thick of battle with arrows coming at you from all directions, and mages throwing fireballs in your direction, will you be too tired and confused to heal either yourself or your companions? What about changing your focus and mentally switching to an offensive spell? What if by failing to do either one of these because you are _too tired_ means guaranteed death? Then where will you be? As I said before, Imoen, giving up at this point is not an option." She winced at the truth behind his statements. Never before had any of her previous teachers demanded so much of her, and she was ready to break down in tears in frustration and hopelessness. 

His voice softened just slightly, to take the rebuke out of his next statement. "You will make the most progress if you practice casting these spells when you are weak and under the stress of fatigue. If you cannot do so here, within a controlled environment, then when you need it on the battlefield you are guaranteed to lose your spell. Now, stand up and come over here," he commanded, his tone gentle but laced with a resolve of steel.

Jon realized how tired she was, but he needed her in this weakened state. There was no way he could summon the essence of Bhaal from within her, as this was something she had to achieve herself. However, if he could place her under the right conditions and force her to reach deep down within herself, then there was a greater chance of her tapping the inner reserves inherited to her by her father, the Lord of Murder. He needed to push her to the limits of her abilities, then further. 

She had come so far already, he wondered if she was able, yet, to feel and experience the energies behind the arcane spells he was teaching her, or if she still just cast them by rote memorization. Either way, she would learn a new lesson before the evening was through. Life and death. She would either provide life to the clone on the table, or learn that failure to do so would result in death. It was a hard lesson to learn, but it may provide the incentive for her to push herself further in the future. 

He watched in satisfaction as Imoen pushed herself off the wall and slowly walked over to stand beside him. 

"Now, one more time, Imoen. Wait for my command." Once more, Jon picked up the scalpel and choosing his target carefully, he made a large incision, laterally, across the creature's abdomen, just below the navel. Blood seeped out, and Imoen made to raise her hands. 

"Not yet," Jon replied. He continued to cut deeper, slicing through abdominal fat and connective tissues, until the coils of her intestines appeared. Reaching into the incisions, he pulled out part of the bowels, and placed them on the clone's stomach. He sliced a coil open, and the filth seeped out to fill the air with its stench.

He turned to see Imoen turn a sickly shade of green and close her eyes in disgust at the sight before her, but she held her composure. This was excellent. One week ago she would have been vomiting on the floor at such a sight. He was pleased with her progress. 

"Now, Imoen. Heal her," he whispered softly, staring intently at her. 

She looked up at him, and he saw the doubt in her eyes. He moved to stand right behind her, and lightly, so as not to frightened her, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and grasped them softly. He bent down until his lips were right beside her ear. He was so close that he could see his breath move the hairs along her temple. He watched as a shudder ran through her in response to his hot breath along the sensitive skin there.

"You can do it, Imoen. Dig deep down inside you. Reach out with your need - a power lies dormant within you. Awaken it with your call. It _will _answer you if your need is sufficient."

Taking a deep breath and calming herself, Imoen raised her hands and focussed on the intricate pattern of the spell in her mind. Starting the incantation she focussed on the gaping slash in the being's stomach. The level of spell required to heal this specific type of wound was fairly high, and it would take longer to cast than most spells. She was halfway through the chant, building and forcing her voice in higher and higher pitch, when she felt the beginnings of the tingling. This almost always happened to her when she cast these new spells. The sensation grew, and she felt an encouraging squeeze from Jon's hands on her shoulders. His touch – so rare and foreign to her, somehow gave her hope to continue, until she happened to look over into the eyes of the poor creature laying there on the cold steel table in front of her. She stared at Imoen, her gaze vacant, while she brought her hands up to touch the coil of severed intestines on her stomach. She slowly bled out onto the table, her life's essence ebbing away heart beat by heart beat. For a fraction of a second, Imoen hesitated in the casting of the spell. However, it was enough to disrupt it, and she felt a fizzle of energy dissipate around her hands. With a small cry of disappointment, Imoen realized she had lost the spell. 

"No – I lost the spell!" she cried, her disappointment obvious in her voice. "What do I do? How do we help her?" she asked, looking around for a towel to stop the bleeding that was now coming faster and faster from the internal wounds of the woman in front of her. 

Jon had removed his hands from Imoen's shoulders and backed up. In many ways he hated to do this, but he wanted her to learn – even the hard way. 

She turned to him, frantic in her effort to prevent the woman from bleeding out before their very eyes. 

"Jon! What do we do? Help her!" she implored. Jon just stood there staring at Imoen. 

"These are the consequences of your actions, Imoen," he said. "You failed to heal her, and now she will die." He made no move to help the creature, much to Imoen's dismay. 

She turned to him, pleading. "Please! Jon! You can heal her. Stop the bleeding." She looked back and forth between the mage and the dying creature on the table, finally realizing that he would not help. A gurgling sound came from the creature's mouth, and Imoen stared helplessly as the final breaths left the woman in fits and gasps. 

Jon waited until he was sure the woman would die before acting. Quickly he reached out and from behind her, he grabbed Imoen's hands around the wrists, forcing them out over the being. 

"What… what are you doing!" she cried, confused. 

"Feel it, Imoen," he demanded, his voice as serious and deadly calm as she had ever heard it. "Feel the life force as it leaves her body." 

Imoen struggled against his hold. "No! There is still time to help her!"

Jon was angry now, as they had mere seconds left, by the sounds of the clone's wracked breathing.

"Have you listened to nothing I have been teaching you? Do not make this a wasted death, Imoen. Learn from it. Allow the soul to touch you as it leaves the body. Close your eyes and feel for it," he instructed.

Imoen realized that there was no way Jon would help the woman before her. Accepting that there was nothing else she could do, she relaxed, and stopped struggling against his grasp. With his fingers still around her wrists, she held her hands out over the body before her, and closed her eyes. She heard a long, rattling breath be drawn, and then nothing. Silence. Ignoring the fatigue that wracked her mind and body, she opened all her senses. 

She waited. Nothing. From far away she heard a faint whisper in her ear – Jon's voice. "Be patient, Imoen."

She sensed, rather than felt, a coldness stir her fingertips. It was not a cold as in a frigid wind, but more like a cold energy. She felt it pass through her, as if something was ascending upwards, travelling through her as a sunbeam penetrates a window pane. Intangible, but undeniably there. Imoen realized that what she was feeling was the death of the creature on the table. If it were not for her lack of skills, perhaps this would have never happened. In a way, she was responsible for the death of the creature, and that thought filled Imoen with regret and remorse. 

She waited until the last of the cold energy left, but she still held her hands out, frightened, not wanting to face Jon just yet. She felt the weight of his touch as he lowered her hands for her, and placed them at her sides. She was surprised when he did not let go, but instead, reached out and wrapped her hands in his. She felt the length of his arms resting against hers, and as she straightened, her back came to rest against his chest. She tried hard not to let him feel her trembling. 

"Did you feel it, Imoen?" he asked quietly from behind her. 

Silently, she nodded her head. She was still filled with such guilt and remorse over the death that just happened, that she did not trust herself to speak just yet. 

"Do you understand now, what happens, what it means when a soul leaves its body?" he asked, wanting her to understand the implications of the death, and not just the process. 

Again, she nodded. 

"Imoen, when a soul is released, there is also a release of a special kind of energy. What you felt was the energy, not the soul, _per se. _It is that energy that a necromancer summons when casting an arcane spell. If that energy is summoned, and directed towards a living being, it can result in the healing of that being. However, if that energy is directed towards something that is dead, then you can reanimate the body, creating an undead that will forever be under your control until its body has been destroyed, or it can no longer function."

Jon spun Imoen around so that she was looking at him, their faces mere inches apart. 

"Now, I ask you again. _Do you understand_? Do you finally comprehend what I am teaching you? Do you realize how powerful you, a spawn of Bhaal, daughter of Murder, could be if you so chose to use your powers? You have the essence of a god within you, a god that did nothing but murder and kill, and has access to the life energy of hundreds of thousand?" he asked. He tried to force her to come to grips with the reality she had denied for so long now. 

"No! No… it can't be," she said, breaking away from his touch, and pushing herself away from the table. She shook her head, trying to deny the truth of the situation. "Damien is Bhaalspawn – not me! That is just not possible!" she said, backing up towards the exit to the room. 

Jon stood there, letting her comprehend the enormity of the situation; her undeniable potential. 

"Yes, Imoen. You too. Although you had different mothers, you and Damien share the same father. You too are a child of Bhaal."

"No," she uttered in denial, backing up further. She bumped into one of the tanks, and turning around, she was startled by a face that swam up to the surface. _I have to get out of here_, she thought to herself. Imoen turned and fled the room, not looking behind her.

Jon sighed. This was not going exactly as he planned. He realized that the goodness in Imoen was warring with the truth of her Divine parentage, and it would take time for her to come to grips with it. He started out after her. Just as he exited the room, he saw her disappear around the corner. He followed her. 

She heard him behind her, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen by him. _Seen by him_, she repeated to herself, and something clicked in her mind. Looking around, she opened the closest door near her, hoping desperately that it was not trapped. She did not have time to look carefully for the tell-tale signs. The door opened, and she thankfully entered, and shut it quietly behind her. She pressed her back up against the door, listening for Jon's footsteps. They passed the door, hesitated, then moved on. Pushing herself off the door, she looked around. To her horror, there were two golems standing guard there, quivering, as if ready to move and demolish the first thing in sight. 

Swallowing hard, Imoen stopped to think. Golems were unusual in that they would not attack at first sight, you had to do something to trigger them – either touch something, or open something they were guarding. As long as she did not try anything stupid, she should be OK. 

Getting her breath under control, she closed her eyes. She was so tired, she was not sure this would work, but she had to try. 

Gathering what remaining strength she had around her, Imoen started to cast Invisibility on herself. She finished the spell with a clap, hoping it was not too loud to draw undue attention to herself. Opening her eyes she looked down at her hand. It was transparent, except for a very, very faint shimmer along the outline of her arm. She smiled. For the first time since waking up in this dungeon, she felt like she had a bit of control over what was happening to her. 

Her happiness fled her quickly. Now what. Where was she to go? There were two things she wanted to know. First, if Damien and the others were here as well, or if she was the only one captured. Secondly, if there was an escape out of this place somehow. 

With a last look at the quivering golems, Imoen reached for the door. She paused, listening for sounds on the other side. Not hearing any, she opened it a fraction, peeing through the crack. The hallway was empty. She opened it further, slipping through the narrow gap and quietly closed it behind her. To go left or right? Always the question. She chose left, and keeping to one side of the hall, she started up the passageway…


	5. Chapter 5

Once again – thanks to all who have read and reviewed this fic (kezya and sabr).

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Chapter 5. 

Imoen crept along the hallway. She came to a junction where she could either continue on to her left, or go through a door to her right. For no particular reason she chose the door. Opening it a fraction, she peered in, only to be disappointed. Inside there was nothing but more tables, some crates, and a solitary glass holding tank. Bubbles streamed from whatever creature lived inside there. She did not have time to search every crate, as she was worried the Invisibility spell would time out, and there was nothing there that would help her at this point in time, so she closed the door and moved on.

The passageway continued for a short bit, then curved sharply. Peeking around the corner, she was startled to see a cluster of goblins loitering in the hall, their weapons not at the ready, but close at hand. Some had bows, but most carried the battle-axes that their kind favoured. There was a chance she could sneak past them, as they would not be able to see her, but she hesitated. Even though they could not see her, they could possibly smell her, or feel the heat emanating from her body at such close quarters. She chose to go forward anyway, as she could see the hallway split again, and she thought she saw another door just a bit further on. If she was here to look for her friends or find some sort of exit, then she would have to take her chances, she rationalized. 

She started forward, and was in the midst of passing between the first few goblins when to her dismay, the door she had spotted at the end of the hallway opened, and Jon exited, a dark look on his normally calm, arrogant face. Looking around she knew she was in a bind – Jon would walk forward any second and run right into her, or else she would bump into one of the goblins trying to get out of his way, which would set off a panic. She knew that even thought she was not visible, she was still tangible. 

Quickly, she backed up, and turning, walked forward down an adjacent passage. To her relief, it doubled back to where the door was, allowing her access to it without having to pass in front of Jon. She watched as the necromancer paused and glared at the goblins in front of him, and in response, how they backed up in reverence. _So, he commanded all of the creatures that existed here, did he_? That was good information to know. She would have to avoid letting herself be seen at all costs, as she doubted anyone living down here would help her.

Waiting patiently, she timed it so that when Jon moved to walk forward, she snuck around his back and quietly went through the open door. She made it through without his noticing she realized, much to her relief. The room was brightly lit with numerous candles set into the walls. She looked around, and was immediately flooded with memories of her childhood. 

The room was a library of sorts, and it reminded her of Candlekeep where she grew up. There were walls upon walls of bookshelves, and she fought the urge to go rifle through them. Damping her enthusiasm, she looked around. There was some sort of black winged creature hovering to her right. It did not appear to see her, however it did flutter around a bit, as if agitated, sensing that something was near it. Imoen wanted to get away from it, so she went in the opposite direction, heading past the bookcases, and down another passageway. 

She quietly rounded the corner when she came upon a square room filled with dwarves. Not just any dwarves, but deep dwarves – Duergar. She stopped in her tracks. They had not noticed her yet, and she kept as close to the walls as possible. They were working on repairing some damaged armour and weaponry, and did not notice her presence. Imoen spotted a sling on the table furthest from her, and she fought the urge to run and grab it. As she cautiously crept forward, her foot accidentally kicked a small wooden chest that lay beneath the table, sending it sprawling. She muffled the sound of surprised pain, but it was too late. Three of the dwarves that were closest to her looked around, trying to locate the cause of the sound. One of them ran off and spoke with a Duergar draped in dark brown robes. 

Imoen rapidly backed up, but the passageway she had just came down seemed so far away. She heard the sound of an incantation starting, and looked over her shoulder for the source. Much to her dismay, she saw a mage Duergar shooting a purple ray of energy towards her, and she tried to duck, falling to the floor in her effort. The ray caught her in its range, however, and looking down Imoen was horrified to realize she could see her hand and arms start to appear. The mage must have cast Detect Invisibility, and revealed her. She was frozen to the spot in fear until his scream of outrage released her. 

"Whaaaat! An intruder? Get her! Kill her!" he screamed in his thick Dwarven burr. At this command, Imoen scrambled to her feet and ran for the passageway just before her. She had no idea how she would be able to pass by the winged creature in the library, or face all of the armed goblins, but she had to get away from the dwarves. These thoughts ran through her mind in a blur, as she desperately searched her mind for an appropriate area spell to cast on the dwarves behind her. She had no chance to select one as multiple bolts were released from crossbows, catching her squarely in the back and leg. On top of that, she felt the searing energy of Magic Missiles as they descended on her, hitting their mark as always. Under the onslaught, she fell heavily, crashing to the floor. 

The pain wracking her body was immense. She had come very close to dying a few times before when she and Damien were adventuring around Baldur's Gate, but nothing came close to this. As she lay thrashing in agony on the stone floor, the sound of feet approaching forced her attention upwards. She rolled over onto her side, and looked up to see one of the dwarves standing over her, his crossbow aimed directly at her heart. At such close range there was no way he could miss.

"Another one of those damn Shadow Thieves would be my guess," he said to the mage behind him. "Where there is one, there is bound to be others. Should I alert the Master?" he asked. 

Imoen felt the warmth of her blood seeping out and starting to pool beneath her, and watched through dimming eyes as the squat Duergar mage walked over to look her sourly in the face. 

"It better to beg forgiveness, than ask permission, I always say. Finish her off, then go find him."

She heard the distinctive thunk as the bolt was released from the carriage, and pierced her soft flesh. In her last dying breaths, she thought to herself that this is what she deserved. This was retribution for allowing the being to die earlier on in the day. 

There was only one thing she could do at this point. _Father, help me, _she thought desperately. She felt deep down inside her for any truth to what Jon had said. She waited for what seemed an eternity for an answer to her cries for help. None came. 

__

He lied to me, she thought. _I called for my father's power, but he did not answer_. 

__

Jon lied to me… it was her last thought before her eyes closed for the last time. 

**~**~**

Jon was furious with himself. First, for allowing Imoen to leave his sight, and secondly, for underestimating her skills. Not as a mage, but as a thief. Never again would he make that same mistake, he swore, his hands clenching and unclenching in anger. He had searched everywhere, but was unable to find her. He even went to the holding room, where the captives were caged and tried to pry information from Jaheira and Minsc without revealing that it was Imoen he was searching for. He received no useful information. 

It was not until that foolish dwarf came to inform him that they had caught a Shadow Thief in the Duergar work area that he suspected the worst. Venting his anger on the messenger, he took the few precious seconds necessary to cast Horrid Wilting on the Duergar. Jon did not stop to see if the dwarf would survive as his flesh began to shrivel and desiccated before him. He immediately cast Dimension Door and transported himself directly into the Duergar section. 

Looking around the room he spotted Imoen laying motionless on the floor by the entrance way to the library. Blood had pooled beneath her, but it no longer dripped from her body. It was obvious she was very dead, and had been so for s while. His exterior visage of cold, detached calmness never faltered, but for the briefest of moments, his heart froze in his chest. He walked over to her and knelt down to inspect the wounds on her body. He was immediately filled with a sense of both relief and anger. Relief at the fact that her body was, for the most part, intact, and so he would be able to Raise her from the dead. Anger at the fact that he should never had allowed this to happen in the first place.

Picking her small, lifeless body easily from the floor, Jon turned to face the Duergar mage, who was standing there smugly, expecting praise for the capture of the thief. 

"I will deal with you later," Jon swore, his voice colder than the breath of a winter wolf. He quickly strode out the passageway towards his laboratory. He needed to get her there so he could remove the bolts from her body before Raising her. 

Entering the room that housed most of the rejected clone bodies, Jon realized he had not yet removed the dead body off the table from earlier. Cursing, he turned around and headed towards Rielev's room. Kicking opening the door, he walked in and placed Imoen's dead body carefully on her side on the table, so as not to force the bolts further into her back. He immediately set to checking the status of her wounds. Her clothing was stained, and the dark blue material of the gown hid the seriousness of the wounds. In frustration Jon reached out and taking the neckline of the dress in his hands, he ripped it apart at the side seam, throwing the torn material to either side of her body. In the dim light of the room he looked down onto her tiny form. He noticed her one perfect breast, which stood out in stark contrast to the mangled one over her heart, where the bolt had pierced it. He lightly caressed her cold flesh, feeling the tautness of her firm body. He doubted he would ever get the chance to see her in such an exposed fashion again. 

He purposefully ignored his growing interest in her nakedness, and set about examining her damaged body objectively. Her most serious wound was the one through her heart. Jon grabbed the bolt and with slow, constant pressure he removed it, trying to prevent as much collateral damage to the organ as possible. He tossed the bolt away, and it landed on the ground with a wet thunk. Next, he turned her carefully, and removed the bolts that ran through her back, upper thigh, and calf. Checking her over from head to foot once more, he was satisfied that all physical bolts were removed. He noticed the scorched area around her chest where Magic Missiles must have hit her. There was nothing he could do about that. 

Standing, Jon backed up, and prepared to form the mental pattern necessary to Raise Imoen back to life, but he paused, thinking. He had an opportunity before him. Was there a better way to do this that he could somehow use to his own advantage? 

Imoen's body was dead, and therefore, it would be easier to reanimate her as an undead creature. This would result in him having complete control over Imoen, and therefore he could command her to do whatever he wished. However, what he did not know was if in the process of reanimating her, would she loose all ties to her Divine potential? He knew if he Raised her soon enough, that for sure the god's essence would not have left her. 

Jon shook his head. There was no option left open to him. He would not chance losing her, or the Divine life force that waited within her. He would have to raise her rather than turn her into one of the undead. Calmly, he straightened, and began to form the spell that would raise her from the dead.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed (shadow).

Chapter 6. 

Imoen felt nothing. Neither heat, nor cold; pain nor pleasure. Nothing. But she was aware, somehow… she maintained the realization that she still existed on some level, but she could not say where, or when. Slowly, second by second, what she could feel was that that awareness was slipping away from her… she was fading.

Then the pain came. She had no tangible body to speak of, no nerves to conduct the electrical impulses signalling pain to her brain, and therefore it was not a physical discomfort. It was much, much worse. It felt as if her soul were being poisoned, as if an evil taint had invaded her, infusing and infecting its way into her very being. This taint slowly diffused itself throughout her existence until it merged with her, becoming one with her being. 

And then the inevitable happened. It took over. Against her will, she felt the malevolent consciousness pulling her, directing her through planes of existence that she had never even imagined, and beyond. Her soul was being hijacked, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Faster and faster she travelled, pulled along by her malevolent guide, until they broke through planes of existence more wonderful and terrifying than she could ever have imagined. Finally, they broke free to the material plane. 

It was then that she understood everything. 

She saw him, standing over her injured body. She watched Jon's hands motioning, and could see the physical manifestation of energy at his spell. With a violent shudder, she felt the evil force that directed her withdraw, then slam her existence back into her body, just as the electrical energy from Jon's body was directed towards her. She saw the energy from the spell guide his bioelectricity, and infuse her dead tissues, shocking her now-healed heart back into a rhythm. As her body spasmodically regained life, her soul was once more trapped, anchored into the material plane. 

Imoen gasped as life-giving air rushing quickly back into her lungs. She coughed and tried to turn over onto her stomach, but her limbs were numb, and refused to obey her directions. Involuntarily, she retched as the feeling of physical pain flooded her body. It was the painful feeling of her cells once more received life-giving oxygen. It was over a minute before she gained control of her heaving stomach. She felt like she was one step away from death again. She was tired and scared, and just wanted to close her eyes and rest. 

Jon looked down at her with pity, recognizing the signs of resurrection. 

"So you survived the process of being Raised. Tell me, Imoen, did you enjoy the experience?" Jon asked casually, watching her carefully for any reaction to his words. 

Forcing her head up, she looked up at him from the table. He could tell by her reaction that she had never been through that process before. She slowly rolled over and looked down at her body, as if reassuring herself that she was indeed alive again. She noticed that her dress was ripped, and she closed it as best she could with her numb hands. If she were rested and her usual self, she would have protested her lack of modesty. Under the circumstances, being brought back from the dead made this fact almost irrelevant. 

Once more she looked up at him, questioningly. 

"Why? Why did you bring me back? I was dead – you should have left me rest," she protested.

"Have you remembered nothing from what I mentioned before, Imoen? You have something that very few others do. You have a God as a father. And that makes you worthy of bringing back."

Inside, Imoen started to laugh. She did remember her last few seconds of life before she died. She had called out to her father – and her call had not been answered. She could no longer control the laughter inside of her. 

"You are wrong, Jon. All of this is wrong," she said, looking around to encompass the room and everywhere else in the dungeons. "I called out to him just before I died. He never answered me." She looked him directly in the face, her fear of him quickly fading. What was the worst thing he could do to her, she thought. Kill her? She had already died, and was no longer afraid of that. 

Jon watched her through the eyes of experience. "All the more reason to believe in you," he said, loftily. 

Imoen was confused. She tried to lift herself up but her arms and legs were numb, as if she had fallen asleep and cut off the flow of blood to her body. They would not respond to her commands. She tried to roll over, but her treacherous limbs refused to move, resulting in her falling from the table, and onto the floor. 

She felt so humiliated, and so confused. She had died, and Jon had chosen to resurrect her. Knowing how powerful he was, and that he could have easily made her into an undead, she was unsure why did what he did. She tried to get up from her undignified positing, but once more, her body was filled with thousands of pinpricks, making her efforts fruitless. 

Jon watched her attempts in amusement. He wanted her to learn what it was like, being resurrected by a necromancer. It was much different compared to a cleric. Your body needed time to heal on its own, as Imoen's was trying to do. He waited patiently for her to understand this. 

Imoen struggled to sit up, but once more, her arms felt cold and lifeless, and refused to obey her commands. She had no choice but to ask Jon for assistance. She looked up to see him peering down at her in amusement. She swallowed her pride, as she knew it was to her best advantage. 

"I… I think I need some help here," she said, feeling very awkward. 

Jon stood there a minute looking down at her. Very slowly he advanced forward, keeping his eyes directly on hers. He bent down, once more taking her very gently into his arms, then straightened, lifting her up and settling her comfortably. She looked up at him, grateful for his help, but resentful that she had to ask in the first place. 

He started forward, intending to deliver her back to her cell. He did not want to admit to her that he had spent most of his healing spells earlier on in the day during their lessons, and that he could do no more for her at the moment. Besides, he rationalized, it would be good for her to experience what involved being brought back from the dead. 

He walked on in silence, feeling the slight weight of her in his arms. He tried to ignore the feelings she was awakening in him. It had been over a decade since he had held a human so close to him, and he almost had forgotten what it was like. It felt good, but in attempting to keep his emotional distance from Imoen, he tried to push those warm feelings away.

Imoen had trouble keeping her head erect, and finally let it rest against Jon's shoulder. She felt the cool metal and leather of his shoulder armour against her cheek, but felt the warmth of his body warming her, radiating up through his chest. If she were not so tired, she would have tried to keep her head upright, so she was not touching him. Under the circumstances, she had no choice. She resigned herself to the situation, and kept her eyes forward. As always, they were drawn to the macabre stitches that were such an integral part of Jon's face. She wondered what that skin felt like. Was it warm, like his body, or cold, like the skin of a corpse? 

"Do they hurt?" she asked him, surprising herself at the question. 

He turned his head to look at her, his blue eyes unsure. 

"Does what hurt?" he asked, continuing to walk on. 

She felt a shiver of fear at his potential answer, but once more realized that the worst possible had already happened – she had died, and nothing could top that. 

"The stitches. Do they hurt you?" she asked in a small voice. 

Jon stopped in his tracks. He had not expected her to ask that of him. Nobody had ever dared ask him about them before, and it threw him off a bit. He continued to stare at her, composing himself, and realized she was just curious. She meant nothing derogatory by the remark, and was just asking out of curiosity. It was one of the traits he wanted her to develop, even if it hurt him to speak of it.

"At the moment, no," he said simply.

"At the moment," she repeated. "Then when do they hurt?" she pushed. 

She could feel the unconscience squeeze he gave her at her persistence. She realized this was an incredibly personal subject for him, and wondered if she should have brought it up in the first place. 

"When I have to remove it," he said slowly. "Occasionally, the skin becomes damaged, or the spell that animates it dissipates, and I have to replace it. That process is very painful, since I trust nobody but myself to do the procedure. It is extremely painful, but… necessary."

He watched her carefully for any negative reaction to this information. He was surprised and somehow grateful when she did not turn away from him in disgust. 

"What… happened, to cause this…" she asked in wonder. 

She felt his immediate emotional withdrawal from her, and knew she had gone too far. She felt a very real shiver of fear at the look on his face at her question. She did not expect an answer, and was surprised when he did. 

"An… experiment went wrong. Suffice to say I paid for it more dearly than you can ever imagine. I lost more than my physical appearance that day. I lost my wife. Her death was such that I could not resurrect her, either back to life, or as one of the undead. She is forever gone from this plane of existence, as a result of my _ineptitude_."

Imoen was shocked at his words. She could never imagine him being inept at anything, as he always seemed to be so in control. She wondered what exactly had happened that day. Jon broke away from her gaze and continued on down the hall to her cell in silence. That explained quite a bit, she thought. About the dresses – she realized now that they must have belonged to his late wife. She felt a bit morbid wearing her clothes, but necessity sometimes makes people do things they would not normally do. 

Jon carried her past her cell, and into the small washroom adjacent. She gently set her down on the edge of the toilet seat, and rested her back against the wall for support. Turning, he reached towards the tub and began to run the water, adjusting the temperature. 

"What are you doing," Imoen asked, still clutching the bodice of her shift, trying to keep it together. 

"Your body has been dead for a few hours, Imoen. You cannot expect to have full use of your limbs for some time. A hot bath will encourage the blood to flow, and restore feeling back into your limbs sooner." He paused in what he was doing to look at her over his shoulder. "Unless of course you would like me to leave, and you can do this yourself," he said mockingly, knowing full well that she was next to helpless. 

She thought quickly. She was in no shape to do this herself, as much as she hated admitting it. 

"No, that is OK. I… I appreciate your help," she said quietly. Jon smiled, but it never reached his eyes. Her admission was one more reminder that he held the control over their relationship, and he never passed up the opportunity to prove that. 

Jon waited until the tub was filled, then turned off the taps. He looked over at her pointedly. 

"Do you need further assistance, or can you disrobe yourself?"

Imoen was quick to answer. "No... thanks, but I think I can manage from here."

Jon reserved his judgement, and silently stood to leave, giving Imoen some privacy. 

He paused outside the doorway, anticipating what would happen next. He had been involved in necromancy for far too long not to know that she would still not have full function of her limbs for another few hours at least. He was patient. He heard her grunts of frustration as she tried to remove the shift, but her arms were still numb, and would not respond. He waited there for at least 10 minutes, and still did not hear the sounds of her entering the tub. The next sounds from the washroom made him smile. 

"Aaaarrgggghhhh!" Rustle, rustle, rustle. "Shit." He could hear the anger and frustration in her voice, followed by a sigh.

"Jon? Are you still out there? I think I need some help," she called, defeated. 

Jon wiped the smile from his dead face and entered the washroom. He could not help but laugh at the sight before him. She was on the ground, and had made the mistake of trying to pull the torn dress up over her head instead of pushing it down and stepping out of it. The dress was half inside out, and most of the material was bunched up over her head. Her arms were obviously stuck somewhere deep inside the shift, and she could not move to either pull the dress up, or push it down. 

With little effort he reached up and grabbing the material, pulled it up and off the woman. Imoen spilled out onto the floor, relieved at finally being free, but embarrassed at the circumstances. 

He discarded the shift onto her lap. "Next time I suggest you listen to the voice of experience and let me help you the first time, Imoen," he admonished. Ignoring her nakedness, Jon reached for her, picking her up under the arms and depositing her easily into the warm water. He set her down gently, her legs straightening out before her. He removed his hands and stood, looking down at her. 

He could not help but once more pass his gaze slowly over her body. She was thin, but with the definite curves of a woman, and not a child. Never again would he make that mistake. His eyes passed over the clotted blood on her chest to see her perfect breasts, their tips an inviting rosy auburn shade that taunted him with their erect perkiness. His gaze travelled down to see the smudge of dark curls nestled between her thighs below the water's surface. Once more desire flooded him with a longing that he thought was long dead. He wanted to touch her, feel her in a way that he never did with the Dryads. With his concubines, he desired perfection, physical beauty. With Imoen it was something else. She was the key to something he desired, and because of that, she held a certain power over him. It was that power he was attracted to. Or so he thought. 

Giving into temptation, Jon sat himself on the edge of the tub and reaching for the soap, he dipped it into the water and began to lather it along her back. At first she jumped at the touch, but soon relaxed. She had crossed her arms over her chest, and looked over her shoulder at him. 

She wanted to tell him to go, and leave her alone, but she did not. His actions and touch were again confusing her. He could have easily left her there to struggle for hours, but he did not. Without having to beg him, he helped her into the bath, and even now she assumed he took pity on her state, and was washing the dried blood off her back. She was surprised at how gentle his touch was. She was even more surprised that she was not flinching away from it. Again, she was confused at all of the conflicting emotions warring within her. 

Her mind logically told her she was being held there against her will, however she was realizing that so far, Jon had not really hurt her directly. It was the Duergar that had attacked and killed her. Jon had even gone so far as to resurrected her, when he could have made her his eternal slave by bring her back as an undead. She shook her head at these conflicting points. 

Jon continued his slow cleansing of her back and neck. Her skin was so soft and smooth, he could feel his arousal increase with every pass of his hand. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her neck and lick the clean, wet skin along there. Instead, he moved on to her arm, bring the bar of soap up and slowly rubbing small circles with his thumbs along the skin there. He noted the small shake of her head, and was curious. 

"What are you thinking about, Imoen?" he asked, genuinely curious. 

She paused, thinking of how to answer him. _What was she thinking about? Him, her, why she was there, what she had just experienced, where her friends are, when would she ever leave this place, and did she really want to leave_… 

"I was thinking about being dead," she said, choosing one of the many thoughts going through her mind. "What it was like. In some ways, it was my worst fear realized. I now know, and in some ways, I am no longer afraid of dying again." She moved her hands briefly and placing them under her knees, drew the up to her chest. She leaned forward, resting her body against them, allowing him greater access to her back. 

"Jon, why did you bring me back? I mean, why not just turn me into an undead?" she asked, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of her. 

He paused for a moment, before reaching to soap the far side of her back. 

"I have told you on numerous occasions, Imoen. There is a latent power inside of you that must be awakened. That is not something I can do, but must come from you. You cannot do that if you are an undead. You see, the divine power of the Lord of Murder is irresistible to a necromancer. With that power, I could combine the divine with the arcane in a spell that could raise a legion of undead armies faithful to me, or perhaps resurrect the Lord of Murder himself, as was his original intent for sowing his seed across the lands. It is also possible that if I were successful in doing so, the Bhaal would reward me with the ultimate gift – immortality."

She was frightened by his response. She suspected he was as insane as Xzar. However, she had to know the truth, even just to settle the confusion within her. 

"So it is the power within me that you seek, and not me as a person," she asked softly, the loaded question hanging in the air. Jon stopped his hands from moving, and dropped them from her back and into the water. He had to remind himself of his quest for power. As much as she was tempting to him, what he desired more was the essence within her. He would not lie to her about this.

"Yes."

At this harsh response, Imoen's resolve firmed. No matter what she felt, or thought she had begun to feel for Jon, she had to leave here. Her highest priority should be in finding a way to escape, as soon as she was physically capable. 

Sensing her change in emotion, Jon realized it would be best if he left her alone now. Standing, he peered down at her. She looked up into his steady, unblinking stare. 

"I will leave you now. A tray of food will be delivered shortly. Sleep well, Imoen. We still have work to accomplish in the next few days." With that he turned and strode out of the room, leaving her alone. 

__

And I have some planning of my own to do, she thought to herself, leaning back in the tub.


End file.
